


The One Man Lonely Hearts Club

by Huggle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, BAMF Castiel, Community: spnkink_meme, F/M, Guilt, Hurt Castiel, Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M, Manhandling, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Groping, Non-Consensual Kissing, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Consensual Violence, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Protective Castiel, Sexual Assault, Violence, recovering castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 11:24:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6077559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huggle/pseuds/Huggle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After they rescue Cas from Rowena, Dean flees the bunker to a bar so he can avoid having to face up to his feelings for the angel. But it's Valentine's day, and the bartender has plans for the depressed guy who sits down and mopes over a beer for half the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Man Lonely Hearts Club

**Author's Note:**

> I played with the canon timeline a little so that the brothers rescue Cas from Rowena on Valentine's Day.

So it’s pathetic and he knows it; how the fuck he ends up in a bar on Valentine’s Day, watching the locals hook up and disappear out back to share spit and a VD is beyond any rational explanation.

But the alternative was to stay back at the Bunker, and either watch Sam do yoga or read lore written by some guy who’s been dead for two centuries, or pull a chair into the corridor and watch Cas sleep for another twelve hours.

He’s not a creepy stalker, and since he spent the first months of their friendship – even if he didn’t know that’s what it was then – telling Cas to knock that shit off, he can’t really be sitting there when the angel wakes up again.

Even if it’s different because Cas damn near died thanks to Rowena giving him witchy rabies. Still, Sam’s checked and rechecked the lore, and says Cas’ll be fine, just needs rest, and even Crowley broke huffy radio silence long enough to say the same thing, and remind them that if they do stumble across his whore of a mother – he gets to deal with her first.

If Rowena’s suicidal enough to show face anywhere near him, Dean’s going to have to settle for Crowley being pissed at him because the only person ganking that Scottish bitch is him. 

He sips his beer, wondering when his life got so goddamn depressing that the only woman he’s currently obsessing over is one he wants to kill. But then if he’s going to be honest with himself, he knows it isn’t a woman he’s interested in.

That was his real reason for needing to get out of the bunker. Sam kept making sad faces full of brotherly love and understanding and dropping hints about as subtle as a hammer to his skull about how it was ok and he didn’t have a problem with it, probably brought on by the day it is.

Which is nice for Sam; Dean has a pretty big problem with it, thank you very fucking much. There’s the whole angel thing, and him being so not worthy of Cas that when he starts to think of him in terms of _them_ he can’t bring himself to look at the guy without wanting to crawl off someplace to die.

And he doesn’t exactly have the greatest track record with relationships; maybe not quite as cursed as Sam’s, but not too far off. Of course, he and Cas – whatever relationship they have right now, friendship, pseudo brothers, angel and charge, he isn’t even sure – he figures they’re cursed anyway.

Since the day they met they’ve both paid for that connection. Mostly Cas, and mostly in blood and pain and abandonment. 

Dean isn’t sure the best reward for that is to hit on his best friend, especially when he’s coming down from a Hulk rage that nearly burned him alive on the inside.

He looks down forlornly at his beer. All he’s got to offer Cas is more of the same. That and a room in a bunker and an Impala 67 that despite the good care he’s taken of her is starting to show her years.

Even if Cas were interested, and Dean knows there’s maybe a chance that he is – call it a hunch, though it could as easily be his own pathetic sense of want – Cas would have to be half out of his mind with desperation to think he couldn’t get a better offer anywhere else.

He picks up his beer and drains it dry, one gulp, down the hatch, and sets the glass down. To hell with this; he’s had enough of glitzy hearts and sequinned banners, and cardboard cut-out cupids and loved up couples grinding on the dance floor.

He’s going home and he’s going to be a creepy stalker and keep an eye on Cas until he wakes up and that is that.

“Here,” the bartender says, suddenly, and shoves a deep red concoction in a high ball glass over at him. “You look like this ain’t a day for celebration for you.”

Dean waves him off. “Nah, I’m done. Thanks all the same.”

“Come on, fella,” the guy says. “Look, it’s on the house. I hate to see somebody miserable when everybody else is having a good time. One and done, ok?”

Dean fingers the rim of the glass. It looks like tomato juice with something lighter and citrus streaking through the mix. 

“What is it?”

“Lust,” the bartender says, and grins as he looks a little embarrassed. “I know, I know. My boss figured, hey, Valentine’s day, what’s cheesier than bare assed baby angels with bows and arrows? Come on, she’s expecting it to be gone when she does the stock check tomorrow, and if you say no, I literally will not have been able to give it away.”

Dean relents; he doesn’t normally mix beer and liquor, especially not some weird themed drink, but it’s one for the road, and the bartender’s been a good guy. Kept the beer coming and not tried to drag out Dean’s reason for putting out _lemme ‘lone_ vibes since he showed up.

He sips the drink cautiously and is pleasantly surprised at the heady burn. “This actually isn’t bad,” he says.

The bartender cocks an eyebrow at him. “First person to tell me that. Guess you needed it, huh.”

Dean drinks a little more of it than he intended. Then he puts it down. He’s driving back home and he’s probably already skirting the limit. “And now I’m done. Thanks, dude. Night.”

But when he goes to get off the barstool, his legs are like rubber. It’s only the bartender reaching over to grab his coat that keeps him upright. His knees knock against the bar and he actually starts to feel fevered.

“I don’t think you should go just yet,” the bartender says. “That last one a little much for you, huh?”

Dean wants to phooey him – he isn’t legless over one foo foo cocktail – but all the same he can’t stand on his own and he’s feeling really weird.

“I’ll call my brother,” he says. “He’ll come get me. Or…Or my friend.”

If Cas hears his phone, that is. 

“Nah,” the bartender says. “How about you just stay, and don’t bother calling anybody?”

Dean doesn’t expect the kiss. But his mouth is suddenly full of the bartender’s tongue and he’s pushing in there, deep and eager, and Dean feels himself reciprocating even before he’s consciously aware of it. 

The guy tastes like citrus and mint and spice and something… He wants to say old, but that’s weird. How can a person taste old?

Before he’s done, the bartender shoves him away. Dean almost goes down, but he locks his knees and holds onto the bar for dear life. 

“Yeah,” the bartender says. He licks his lips and Dean has to watch the tip of his tongue glide its way around his mouth. “You’ll do nicely. Real nice. So let’s start things off.” He points past Dean, towards a table near the door.

There’s a guy sitting there – biggest belly Dean’s ever seen, hanging heavy over the waistband of his pants. He’s wearing an old plaid shirt under a thin jacket, looking like he’s come off shift at the steel plant a couple of miles outside of town. Rough and tired and Dean suddenly wants him more than he’s wanted anybody in his life.

“Get on your knees and go over to that guy and suck him off. I want everybody else in this place watching you and thinking what it is they’re going to want to you do next. And whatever they tell you to, fella, that’s what you’re going to do. Even if it’s sucking every dick in this place until you can’t swallow another drop of cum.”

**

The shame of it burns through him, turns his cheeks red hot, but he does it anyway. He finds himself on his hands and knees, crawling across the sticky floor. He’s aware the music’s stopped, everything’s stopped, and everybody’s watching him inch his way across to the guy the bartender had singled out.

He wants to kick and scream and fight, but there’s a part of him that thinks you know what? This isn’t so bad. Come on, dude, it’s Valentine’s Day. Share the love.

The minute he puts a hand on the guy, he’s going to get his ass kicked and that’s ok, because maybe it’ll shake loose whatever it is that has a hold on him.

Fucking tomato juice pissy cocktail. When he gets out from under this he’s going to gank that son of a bitch.

The guy from the steel plant just watches him until he’s close enough to touch and Dean’s praying that he just lashes out or kicks him away. He doesn’t; he shifts his bulk around enough that he’s facing outwards, and opens his legs so wide they’re straining the denim. Dean can’t miss the bulge between his legs, like watching him crawl across the floor has him hard already.

His hands are shaking when he reaches up to undo the guy’s flies but there’s a deep urge of want starting inside him. And he does, he knows. Want. Just not this, not with him. But whatever’s working on him doesn’t seem to care about that minor differentiation. 

He slips the guy loose and he’s certainly got nothing to be ashamed of. His dick’s curved upwards, flushed and thick, and Dean isn’t sure he can fit that thing in his mouth. But he’s going to try, and he starts with just a lick at the tip, just to moisten him up, and he’s rewarded with the sour hint of pre-cum on his tongue.

The guy grunts, heavy and a little breathless, and Dean wonders if his heart’s up to this. Last thing he wants is to kill the guy. Except maybe he does because any idiot can see he doesn’t want this and yet this guy is going to let him do it anyway.

Unless…Dean risks casting his eyes around the people he can see while he mouths his way along the guy’s cock. They’re all too eager, too rapt, and he thinks that maybe he was really the only one to try that piece of shit drink, but whatever magic’s going here it’s dragged them all into it.

And the bartender set it up.

Maybe he’d got distracted because the guy’s suddenly impatient. He snags his fingers in Dean’s hair and tugs enough that he can just feed his cock into Dean’s mouth. It goes deep right away and he gags and tries to pull back but the guy’s strong and he just holds him there for a second, letting Dean choke.

He gives out a loud gasp and then he just starts moving Dean’s head, pulling him down and then shoving him back. Dean’s throat burns, he can actually feel the skin at the sides of his mouth start to tear.

But he doesn’t have it in him to try and pull away. He figures he couldn’t anyway. There isn’t an inch of him that doesn’t feel like jelly, and even if he could get free of this guy, there’s maybe another fifteen people crowding around him now that he can actually make them out.

They’re not gonna let him leave.

And even if they did, the bartender sure as hell isn’t.

He’s grateful, almost, when somebody else grabs him and yanks him away, even if it feels like steel plant guy tugged out a handful of his hair, because he can breathe again. But he’s shoved on his back, and some chick in a halter neck top and a red skirt is standing over him.

She drops down awkwardly to her knees, giving him a full on view of her panties. Then she tugs them aside and grins down at him. Before he can say anything, she squashes down onto him, grinds into his face, and that moment of panic is back as he can’t take a breath.

He does make a half-hearted attempt to free himself then, but it’s so fucking hard; he’s fighting her, and he’s fighting himself, because there’s still something inside him that’s saying yes, this is good, what the hell’s wrong with you, Dean? You want some any other night of the year except this night?

You let everybody in here just do what they want with you, and whatever’s preying on you will just get shoved right back.

That last one doesn’t sound like him, even though it’s a remedy he knows he’s used before. Tried it with drink, and tried it with sex, letting some random hook up screw him through the bed so he can just lose himself in someone else for a night.

But the voice was the bartender’s, not his, and this is not what he wants. 

It’s not.

He tries to push her off him, but someone grabs his hands and pins them down above his head. Someone else is working on his denims, tugging them down and off so rough he can feel the material score his legs.

His boxers follow, and then somebody’s giving him the roughest hand job of all time, no lube, friction too much.

It hurts, and he bellows up into her, and he hears her laugh.

They’re going to kill him. He…He’s helpless and he can’t fight his way out from under this spell, it has to be a spell, and all of them, and he needs out.

 _Cas_ , he pleads. _Cas, Cas, Cas, please, please come get me. Cas_!

**

Cas snaps upright and remembers suddenly why Sam is always telling him that’s never a good idea. Because humans have things like blood pressure and dizziness to contend with, and though he isn’t human, his vessel has been subject to rough treatment over the past couple of days.

Still he staggers to his feet, though he has to brace both hands on the wall to stay that way.

Dean… He’d heard Dean calling to him, panicked, afraid. 

It isn’t the first time. Sometimes Dean does it without realising, and sometimes it isn’t even that something’s wrong. Sometimes he’s frustrated, sometimes he’s depressed, sometimes Cas gets the feeling he just wants to talk to him and hasn’t acknowledged it or prefers the security of it being a one-way conversation.

Cas wishes he could commune with Dean that way, but the force of it would probably leave the hunter catatonic. If things were different, Dean would be able to attune himself, but they aren’t.

Something is wrong. His first instinct is to try Dean’s cell; his phone is lying on the nightstand, and he keeps one hand on the wall as he retrieves it and dials Dean’s number. It goes to voicemail after a few rings and Cas shuts it off.

Sam…. Sam might be with Dean, or know where he’s gone.

He finds his way first to Sam’s room, but it’s empty. So is Dean’s but then he’d hardly be pleading for Cas to come get him if he were in the bunker – or, at least, not by thought. He would have shouted for help if he were that close and in trouble.

Cas moves on to the library and the war room; it’s there he finds Sam, slumped on the table, head pillowed on his arms. 

Cas rests a hand on his head, to assure himself the younger brother is alright; he’s been unconscious for several hours, and Dean is not here and in trouble. Who knows what’s happened in the time he’s been unawares?

But Sam is fine; just exhausted, the stress of rescuing him from Rowena’s spell and taking care of him afterwards finally having worn him down.

Cas soothes away the start of a nightmare but finds in Sam a memory of Dean telling him he was heading out to a bar. Mulligan’s.

He knows of it, passed it when he had walked through Lebanon while trying to decide where to go when he’d been turned away. 

But to reach it he’ll need transport. He climbs the stairs to the garage and takes the car nearest to the door.

**

The town is quiet tonight; Cas knows the day it is, and the human traditions that accompany it. It’s never meant anything to him, like the rest of humanity’s days of note, but since his run in with the Cupids he’s developed a sense of dread whenever this particular date comes around.

But probably the majority of the town will be with loved ones at home, or on dates, in restaurants or bars.

He spies Mulligan’s up ahead, and abandons the car at the kerb. 

Through the window he can see the bar is packed with people, but they all seem to be standing still, looking down as if watching something on the floor.

Cas slams the door open, and pushes his way through the crowd, shoving people aside with little concern. He suspects he’ll find Dean in the middle, and if anything has happened to him….

It takes him a moment to process what he’s seeing.

Dean is naked, and he isn’t alone in that. Two men are holding him between them, on his knees. Another woman, also bare, is advancing towards him. She looks eager, and wanton, and Dean… He can see on Dean’s face an answering desire, but he what he can feel from Dean is something completely different.

Fear warring with arousal. Panic mixed with desire.

And then Dean sees him, and his expression becomes one of desperation.

“Cas,” he says, and his voice is almost a sob.

It’s only the fact that he senses in the same instant that these people are as much under the sway of something magical as Dean is that allows Cas any self-restraint.

He puts his foot to the shoulder of the closest man holding Dean and sends him sprawling. The woman he knocks out by simply touching her forehead, and then he tugs Dean free of the other man’s grasp. 

When he surges to his feet to protest, Cas gives him a shove that sends him crashing backwards into the crowd, knocking several other people down as well.

Dean is standing there, eyes wide, shaking, and for a moment Cas isn’t sure what to do. He can hear the thoughts in Dean’s head, clamouring against each other. 

_Help me, Cas._

_I want every single person in this place to tell me what to do to you, Cas. To kiss you. To push you down to the floor and give myself to you. To make you feel so good, Cas, to make you know that there’s nothing in the world I want more than you._

_Cas, get me out of here._

He’s nearly overwhelmed by it, and he realises whatever is operating in this place it’s starting to work on him as well. Perhaps the taint of it moving from Dean to him. 

Cas reaches up and presses two fingers to Dean’s forehead. The hunter collapses against him, a sob of relief burying itself in Castiel’s shoulder.

“It’s alright, Dean,” Cas tells him. “I’ve got you, it’s alright.”

He spies Dean’s clothes in a tangled bundle by the feet of the crowd and focuses. A moment later, Dean is dressed again, and that seems to give him some strength. He straightens up thought he doesn’t yet leave Cas’s embrace.

Cas doesn’t want him to. He’s as shaken as Dean is, at finding him being…assaulted by these people. Whatever physical harm was done, he’s healed, but even though he knows they’re victims too, it’s hard not to unleash his anger.

No one should be able to hurt Dean. No one.

Then he sees the one who did. The true culprit.

The man is trying to sneak out from behind the bar but Castiel raises a hand towards him. He’s in the air suddenly, jerked back and sent sprawling at the angel’s feet.

“Alright!” he yells. He manages to get to his knees, tries to stand. Castiel keeps him where he is with a thought. “Ok, alright, no harm done, eh?”

“No harm?” Cas shifts so that Dean is behind him. He reaches around to keep Dean pressed against his back. “No harm? You’ve controlled and taken advantage of these people. Of my friend. What are you?”

He can feel his Grace aching even as he readies himself to wipe this thing from existence. He’s already exhausted again, but he will get Dean home safely and he will take care of this creature.

“You don’t know me, seraph. I mean, not personally. Look, if I’d known he was spoken for, I’d never have touched him, ok?”

“What,” Cas says again, and he feels his eyes flare with the power of his Grace, “are you?”

“Pothos,” the man snaps. “This is about the only day of the year I can feed, alright? And nobody gets hurt, not really. Come on, no hard feelings, huh? You take your human and we can just make like this never happened.”

Dean’s still shaking against him, less now though, but to hear this thing talk of no hard feelings and no one being hurt.

If Dean was unharmed, and safe, he would have killed this creature by now – this _god_ \- but he has one priority. Still, he can’t simply let it leave. He puts his hand to its head before it realises his intent, and mutters the Enochian low and fast.

Pothos tumbles backwards, landing hard, wheezing. “What did you to?” it demands.

“That was to bind your powers,” Cas tells it. “It’s temporary, but you should leave here before I change my mind about killing you.”

He turns to face Dean, and he can see how drained he is. He’s still shaking, and Cas knows it’s not through any physical hurt. He’s healed all of that, but the effects of the spell – of what’s happened to him…

That will take time.

Cas pulls Dean’s arm across his shoulder, guides him through the confused people just starting to wake up from Pothos’s magic, and takes him out to the car.

**

“Sam?” Dean mutters. Cas has just pushed open the door of the bunker, and he can’t fight or protest when Cas actually has to lift him over the knee knocker rim. Cas has been practically carrying him since they left the bar.

“Asleep,” Cas says. “He was when I left and…he still is.”

Dean nods. He’s grateful for that small blessing, because maybe Cas has fixed him up physically but the exhaustion is more than just bone deep. Figures it’d take a while for whatever that bastard – Pothos – did to him to fully wear off. He can about deal with what’s happened – and by deal he means shove it aside and pretend it actually didn’t – unless Sam’s awake.

Because Sam will take one split second look at him, and just know, because Sam’s his brother and nobody – except maybe Cas – can read him like an open book.

“Ok. Good. I really need a shower, Cas.”

He can’t ask for the angel’s help, some stubborn remnant of pride hanging on grimly. Which is pretty ridiculous, given that Cas just found him naked and helpless in some bar. It got no further than groping, and a forced blow job and somebody sitting on his face, but that was too damn far, and he knows if Cas hadn’t showed up when he did it would have gone much further than that.

But his legs still won’t really hold him, and if he passes out in the shower and cracks his skull open he figures that’s too high a price to pay for pride. Maybe even dignity. Hell, it’s his family he’s with, he’s pretty sure both of them have seen him in most worse condition than this. There’s nothing to hide from them, or at least there shouldn’t be.

Cas sits him down on the toilet while he turns on the shower. He adjusts the knobs until the water temperature’s right, and then he takes off his trench coat, his jacket.

Dean figures he’ll just roll up his sleeves, but he doesn’t stop. The shirt and tie are next, and then Cas is toeing off his shoes, and tugging off his socks.

Now, now he’ll stop.

But he doesn’t.

He slips out of his pants and boxers at the same time and then gathers up all the clothes, and puts them in a bundle on top of the closed laundry hamper in the corner.

“Cas,” Dean manages. “What are you doing?”

“Do you think you can stand by yourself?” Cas says.

He thinks about trying; considers grabbing the cistern and pushing himself upright and hoping he can count on force of will to keep him on his feet.

He knows better, and if he can’t lean on Cas, who can he?

“Not without falling and breaking something,” he relents. 

Cas nods, not smug, not self-satisfied, almost relieved, as if he’d expected a fight on this. He encourages Dean out of his overshirt and tee, unties his boots and removes them and his socks. He manoeuvres Dean to his feet, has him brace himself against the wall while he strips off his denims and boxers, and pushes all of it aside.

And it should be awkward, it should be awkward as hell, but it isn’t. It’s just Cas, and Dean won’t deny he’s thought about this particular scenario more than once. Just not after he was magic-roofied in some bar and nearly raped thanks to some freaky lust-hungry whatever that was.

Cas helps him into the shower, and Dean braces his hands against the tiles, lets the heat pound into him. He’s still wobbly, and he feels Cas standing just behind him. Not too close, not too far, and he knows he can relax now. He knew he was safe the moment he looked up to find Cas standing over him, but he also knows if he does pass out, or his legs just give way that Cas will catch him before he can fall.

“I’m sorry,” he says. It’s just occurred to him that he should have done that first. That should have been the first thing out of his mouth, once Cas had him in the car and was speeding them back to the bunker.

“Dean?” Cas sounds confused.

Dean looks back to see Cas has soap and a flannel in his hand, was ready to hand them to him. He half smiles at the angel; when Cas cleaned him up he did it right, but he sees how Cas is figuring this, that Dean might want to clean himself physically on top of the Grace cleansing that Cas did, to feel like it’s done.

He does, but he has to say this first.

“You’re still recovering from what Rowena did, and then you have to haul ass down there and use your Grace to take on that whatever it was.”

“Pothos,” Cas says. “A redundant Greek god, who-“

Dean nods, cutting him off. “I get it. Gets his jollies by having complete strangers molest each other. But the point is that you had to set yourself back again to save my ass, literally, and I’m sorry, Cas.”

Cas is giving him that displeased look he gets, when Dean’s screwed up, or Cas thinks he just isn’t seeing sense.

After Dean realised Cas would never actually hurt him or toss him back into Hell like he’d threatened, after he really got to know Cas, it came over more endearing and kind of adorkable than anything else – when it was aimed at him or Sam anyway – but right now? With Cas’s hair plastered to his skull, water streaming down his face, and him still there holding a washcloth and soap?

Despite everything, Dean has to choke back on a laugh.

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” he insists. “I screwed up. Again.”

“Did you know you were about to be drugged and taken advantage of? Did you know that creature would be waiting in there to take vicarious pleasure from watching others try to debase you?”

He sobers fast at the thought, but not just that one. Because something else has occurred to him.

“No. But I’m sorry at what you heard too. Because I know you heard it, Cas. I know you did.”

Cas glances away, but it isn’t long because those blue eyes are focused on him again. “You were calling for help, Dean. I heard it. I can hear you all the time, your prayers. Your longing.”

Dean turns all the way around, has to do this facing him. The truth of it is, he still feels that way. He still wants to take Cas to bed, still wants to do things to him that will make him lose himself. He wants to make Cas come undone, wants to make him feel safe and loved. He wants to claim him, make Cas realise that it’s him the angel belongs to.

And that Dean belongs to Cas in turn.

He wants to touch Cas everywhere. He just wants to do it in private, without complete strangers egging him on, like they had any right to even be thinking of Cas that way.

He wants to do it without being told to and he doesn’t get why that’s what it took to bring him, them, to this.

And maybe he said that out loud, or maybe he broadcast – like his longing – because Cas tilts his head a little to the side.

“Why do you feel you have to wait for permission?” he says, and if that doesn’t go straight through Dean like lightening he doesn’t know how else to describe it.

“Because it’s you,” he manages. _Because I’m not worthy of you, and I’ll never be worthy of you_. “So tell me, Cas. Tell me it’s ok to touch you.”

He figures he needs to find a way to put a mental sock in it because now Cas just looks sad. He starts to speak, to say something to fix this, but Cas puts a finger against his lips.

“You are more than worthy, Dean,” the angel says. “And you can touch me whenever you please, but I’d like it very much if you wanted to start now.”

**Author's Note:**

> For an SPN kink meme prompt.


End file.
